


start of something new

by thedeadleaves



Series: little player, big ace [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Asian Character(s), Character(s) of Color, Gen, Hispanic Character, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jack Zimmermann Has a Sister, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, Jeff Troy Is Hispanic, Mental Health Issues, Okay? Making that clear, Original Character(s), Original Female Characters - Freeform, Original Male Characters - Freeform, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadleaves/pseuds/thedeadleaves
Summary: Jeff Troy didn’t expect the LV Aces’ draft pick to be Kent Parson. Jeff also didn’t expect to have the kid room with him.or; Jeff Troy reacts to Jack Zimmermann overdosing and the fall-out of it.Edited
Relationships: Jeff "Swoops" Troy & Scraps (Check Please!), Kent "Parse" Parson & Jeff "Swoops" Troy
Series: little player, big ace [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878928
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	start of something new

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [That House was Never Built for You by idrilka](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366013)

Contrary to popular opinion, Jeff could cook very well. 

He just chose not to. 

The Vegas restaurants were good. Better than good, actually, and traveling during season meant he didn’t have time to bust out the pots and pans. He loved the convenience of restaurants and takeout. The most often he ate homemade meals was once a week—his nutritionist _hated_ him. But for the most part, he felt no regrets as young men with marvelous metabolisms and chiseled abs were prone to do. Still, he couldn’t get the nagging phone call from his mother out of his mind and realized if he didn’t start making his own meals very soon he was going to turn into Uncle Arthur—who couldn't move down the stairs without moaning in pain. Jeff stared at his salt-laden fried chicken and too-sweet waffles with mild horror. For the past two years, he had eaten whatever he wanted, with no one to stop him regarding his dietary choices. 

What was he going to do when he wasn’t burning off all the calories after he retired? God, _when_ was he going to retire? Hockey players retired early—in their thirties—while most normal people were settled into their careers. Yes, he had more money than he ever needed and managed to pay off his mother’s mortgage (something he would lord over her for the rest of their lives) but all the money in the world couldn’t buy a new body. The most it could do was get him new organs if they ever gave out. Restaurant food could work while he was young, but god, for the rest of his life?

Before he could freak out about his _fucking_ cholesterol numbers, at the tender age of twenty, Scrappy’s phone’s obnoxiously colored phone that the entire team kept mocking him for owning chirped loudly. His friend silenced it while Jeff took another bite of his chicken and almost choked on the orange juice the waitress—she flashed him a flirtatious smile and if he hadn’t been scrolling through his phone, he would’ve reciprocated—put down.

They were having a playful conversation about Scrappy’s shitty blowjob from the puck bunny at the club last week when Jeff's phone pinged again. 

This time, Jeff couldn’t ignore it—so he turned to grab it on the table and silence it. But then curiosity got the better of him and he opened the messages. 

He checked Twitter because the notifications were blowing up his phone. 

**Sports Illustrated** @SInow · 2h

BREAKING NEWS: 2009 #1 NHL pick Jack Zimmermann overdoses on cocaine and drops out of the draft. 

[image: Jack Zimmermann scoring a goal for Rimouski Océanic] 

Twitter hardly seemed like the most credible news source so Jeff switched over to ESPN. On his iPhone, a headline blared on all capitals: _JACK ZIMMERMANN WITHDRAWS FROM DRAFT FOLLOWING DRUG OVERDOSE_. 

“What the actual _fuck_?” Jeff managed to rasp out after the citrus burned his throat. Scrappy finally looked up from making love to his pancakes— _pancakes_ in a _waffle_ house, it was outrageous—they just stared at each other for a moment like the other had taken too many pucks in the head. “Do you see this, man?” 

Jeff held his phone out so his friend could see clearly. Scrappy’s eyes went wide. 

“Holy shit.” Scrappy said gravely, a sharp contrast to before when he had been happily devouring his breakfast food. “That shit is so fucked up.”

Jeff felt only mildly shocked and slightly desensitized to the horrible shit that happened to the players. Junior league was a battleground with every man for himself and teenage boys weren’t exactly the most emotionally aware of themselves. Hell, Jeff was fucking twenty—he had lived away from his parents for three years years, did (read: paid someone) his own goddamn taxes and still felt like a child even if the team chirped him endlessly for being too responsible. He couldn’t imagine the stress and expectations Jack Zimmermann experienced before it led to the overdose. He didn’t exactly _want_ to think of it. 

God, what a clusterfuck of a mess. 

“I’ve got to be going through some cognitive dissonance. This _cannot_ be happening.” Jeff muttered, rubbing his eyes. 

“We get it bro—you went to a fancy college.” Scrappy rolled his eyes. “No need to use big words to flex your IQ.” 

Jeff snorted into his cup of juice. “Technically I only got half a degree in business.” He paused. “ _Quarter_ of a degree. I was in college for a year.”

“And what are you doing with that quarter-degree from Notre Dame, my dude?” 

“Disappointing my parents with PhDs from Berkeley. I’m a disgrace to the Troy legacy.” 

At that poorly timed and rather insensitive joke about _legacy_ , Scrappy returned to furiously scrolling through his hot-pink phone, like the most obnoxious, sleezy piece of shit in this godforsaken city, and they were in fucking _Vegas_ out of all places. 

“Dude—this is fucking legit. ESPN, TMZ, Sports Illustrated, even USA Today. They’re all running the same story.” Scrappy wiped his face with the back of his hands instead of with a napkin. “Holy fucking shit.” 

Jeff skimmed the ESPN article once more and then shrugged because how else was he supposed to react? Was he supposed to be dejected that Bad Bob Zimmermann’s wonder kid, the Prince of Hockey, turned out to be a junkie and landed his ass in rehab? He didn’t know the boy and he could hardly express remorse or melancholy without seeming disingenuous in his effusiveness. 

“It sure looks like it,” Jeff said slowly, still cutting into his fried chicken. Jesus, he could hear their nutritionist’s nagging. “Shit—I bet the GMs and PR are fucking losing it. What I would give to see the look on Pierce’s face—did I ever tell you how much I hate him?” 

Scrappy chewed thoughtfully for a moment. His dark eyes flickered momentarily with something unfathomable—perhaps pity? perhaps regret?—but it was always hard to tell with Scrappy whenever it was serious, stupid hot-pink phone be damned. 

“I fucking hate Pierce.” Scrappy agreed. He took a sip of his coffee and put the pink phone into his front shirt pocket. Jeff decided not to tell his friend the bright color was still discernible through the thin linen. 

Jeff stared at his friend’s face and considered his next words very carefully. Of course, he usually chose his words with care around only women—a habit formed from years of living with an overbearing mother who wanted him to be a lawyer and an even more suffocating grandmother made him rather fastidious around the female sex—but Scrappy was unpredictable whenever it was serious. Jeff needed to touch on this topic lightly. 

“All their careful planning for rebuilding down the fucking drain. Now the angle’s going to be fresh talent—a scrappy American underdog,” Jeff said dully, willing himself not to think about all the bullshit that would be circulating around the front office. “Maybe _that_ will appeal more to viewers.”

“It’s fucked what happened to the kid.” Scrappy hummed thoughtfully. “If the paps leave him alone, he might get better.” 

The reason why Jeff wasn’t fazed by what happened to the Zimmermann kid—with the pretentious surname and family history—was because he _knew_ it wasn’t the first case. Rich kids did drugs. That was a fact. (Growing up in Weston, Massachusetts exposed him to that. He thanked his mother for her foresight in enrolling him in a public high school. The private school kids were _insane_.)

The tabloids would speculate Zimmermann had used drugs affluent teenagers typically abused. Xanax, OxyContin, ecstasy, Molly, maybe even regular old coke. But no one could _really_ know unless they interrogated his doctors. It wouldn’t stop them from prying and pulling back all the buried layers. Nothing this high profile had ever happened before—to the son of _Bad Bob_ _Zimmermann_ and less than twenty-four hours before the draft. The journalists were hungry and they just spotted a tasty meal via Jack Zimmermann. 

In an ideal world where people gave a fuck about feelings and teenagers, the NHL’s top draft prospect being the son of a hockey legend with an even more famous supermodel wife should not have mattered. Except it did. Because the sports industry ate up gossip almost as quickly as the modeling industry ate up young girls’ self-esteem. The world was a dark and _twisted_ place. 

“Fat chance of that happening.” 

“Holy shit. When did you become so fucking cynical?” 

“Who's using big words now?” Jeff looked up from the brim of his large coffee mug and smiled darkly. “The world eats up hope faster than gold diggers eat up money.”

“You are so many levels of fucked-up, Swoops. I _like_ it.” 

Everything about this was so many levels of fucked up—sure, his mother would have seen it from _miles_ away because how else was a child, the son of hockey’s greatest player, going to cope with the mountains of unachievable expectation in such an oppressive culture?—but Jeff knew he just had to carry on. 

No use dwelling on what-ifs. 

Kent Parson was not going second. He was going first. Kent Parson was not going to the Buffalo Sabres. He was going to the Las Vegas Aces.

Despite the fact that it was 9 am in the morning and he had a long day ahead of him, Jeff asked the waitress for two Irish coffees with more whiskey than coffee. They could call a cab home instead of driving. 

Scrappy pushed his Irish coffee towards Jeff. Jeff downed both drinks with two gulps. 

* * *

As they left the waffle house to go to Scrappy’s place to play _Assassin’s Creed II_ and watch the draft—even if it was slightly macabre to do so—Jeff’s phone rang. 

His phone said: _Matteus Heikkinen_. 

Instead of staying in the States, Matty caved into his mother’s wishes—it was an unfortunate circumstance the both of them bonded on, overbearing mothers—and returned to Finland for the better part of the off-season. The fucker probably had a chance to finish his meal of whatever the fuck they ate in freeze-your-balls-off Scandinavia before he learned about what happened to their top draft prospect. 

Jeff wished he was in Finland for a second. It seemed so far from the NHL here. 

“Matty boy—” 

“Don’t call me that, you fucker.” 

“—what’s up?” Jeff pressed the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he opened the side of his car. It wasn’t too flashy but it wasn’t the _truck_ his father insisted he buy. Jeff handed the keys to Scrappy, who said Jeff was in no condition to drive after two whiskeys. 

“I hate it here. My _mummi_ keeps telling me to sleep with a nice Finnish girl, not one of those puck bunnies. I want to gouge out my eyes.” Matty groaned, his accent a little more pronounced after a few weeks spent at home. Usually, he trilled his words—the air of disdainful urbanity added to the poshness of his voice—but now Jeff had to strain to understand his friend’s words. “What the fuck is going over there? I leave America for a few weeks and Zimmermann overdoses? The hell?” 

Scrappy jammed the key into the ignition hole. Jeff got in on the other side. 

Jeff put Matty on speaker and placed his iPhone on the center console. 

“It’s a good thing they didn’t start making those Zimmermann jerseys, huh? Wouldn’t have been a good seller.” He remarked sarcastically. His mother kept telling him his sense of humor was inappropriately morbid, which was rich coming from her, but it’s not like he could exactly help it. It was one of the few traits he inherited from her. “Not a profitable move.”

“You’re an asshole, Swoops.” Scrappy shook his head. “You fucking know that?” 

Jeff pressed his hand on the speaker of the phone. “Yeah, I know it. Now fuck off—talk to your girlfriend or something.” 

Scrappy flipped him off and Jeff, because he was a consummate adult and was incredibly mature, stuck out his tongue. 

Matty asked. “Does Blitzer even know?” 

“How the hell should I know? I haven’t had any contact with him. No one has.” 

“I can’t believe he fucking did it. Why does he like going out into the woods? As if growing up near a forest wasn’t enough.” 

Jeff did a poor imitation of Blitzer’s vaguely stoner-esque way of speaking. It was reminiscent of the stereotypical surfer Californian accents he heard on TV. “One has to commune with nature or else one will lose their way in life. _Fucking hippie._ ”

Matty pointed out with little humor. “Spending all that time with trees has him losing the few brain cells he has. Who the fuck decides to spend off season in the woods, talking to Mother Nature?” 

“Blitzer does. I guess.” 

“Well, we need to contact him— _immediately_.” Matty said urgently. “Before Coach Iron Mike does.” 

“Before Keenan talks to him, that part I agree with.” Jeff felt Scrappy turn on the ignition so he could adjust the AC but the engine did not start. “ _Blitzer_ talking to Parson? I don’t agree with.” 

“It’s probably our best option, you know, having him call Parson and welcome him after the draft. His dad played with Bad Bob, I think. Or should we have Scrappy or Smirnov do that? Is Smirnov even in the fucking country right now? What does he do in the off season?” Matty made a noise of mild agitation. “Whatever you do—make sure the first person who greets Parson isn’t _Iron Mike_.” 

“Scrappy’s out of the question.” At that Scrappy made an aggrieved noise. “He’s a certified idiot. Can’t have him talk to Parson because he’ll ask inappropriate questions or overwhelm the kid,” Jeff said dryly. “Smirnov is in Russia and he’s going to deal with our other rookie—you know the one that couldn’t come until now?” 

“Ah, the one who got drafted last year?” Matty made a noise of recognition. “Alexei Maskhov? Did you know he’s Irina Tunicova’s son?” 

Jeff didn’t. “Who the fuck is she?” 

Matty snorted, “For someone with smart ass parents, you’re fucking _uncultured._ When was the last time you even read?” 

“Listen here you piece of shit—” 

Matty offered cheekily. “Think Wayne Gretzky of figure skating. No, more like Mario Lemieux. Broke records, first to do triple axels and shit. Two Olympic golds. A couple of World Championships.”

“I have no fucking idea what a triple axel is.” 

“She’s a _legend._ That’s all you need to know.” Matty said hastily, clearly annoyed. “ _Anyway,_ Smirnov’s out because Mashkov will be rooming with him this year. Therefore we need someone to talk to Parson before the kid does something stupid.” 

“You don’t actually think he’s a junkie, right?” Scrappy blurted out incredulously who had been listening in quietly on their conversation until now. “Shit. What if he is? Dude we’re _majorly_ fucked.”

Jeff was _this_ close to slamming his forehead against the dashboard and doing that until he got his head together. He had been the high school valedictorian. He had gone to Notre Dame—one of the most pretentious schools on the earth. Then he had been professionally drafted into, objectively, the whitest sport on the fucking planet as a Latino. 

Jefferson Thompson Troy was hardly ever stumped. But he had no idea how to work with the bag of shit they’d all been handled—he spent a year at college majoring in Finance, not on how to professionally handle fuckery. There was no special machine they could pull to ensure Parson wasn’t a maybe-junkie who was going to be on their team.

Jeff slapped his own forehead in surprise. “ _Shit_. Okay, I’ll text Wolfie and make sure one of us talks to Parson before he has to deal with Keenan by himself—”

Winston Wolfenheim was the eldest member of the team at a ripe old age of twenty eight with a girlfriend getting her master’s degree. 

Matty chuckled lowly, a gravelly thing. “I’m not the only one hoping that Keenan will do something majorly stupid like fuck over Parson so that the GM fires him, right? You and I both know he planned on putting Zimmermann on the third line. If that isn’t the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Keenan had hated the hype, the clout, that came with Jack _Zimmermann_. (Even the mention of their now-former draft prospect could have sent their Coach flying into a rage—Jeff thought the man was seriously unhinged.) To outsiders it seemed entirely reasonable—to want to teach a rookie humility and show that it was about the team, not the individual player—but their coach was a certified nutjob. It was commonly known that Keenan had been the person who drove away _Wayne_ _Gretzky_ , leading the legend to sign with the New York Rangers.

What a dickwad of a coach they were stuck with. 

“I’ll talk to him. Promise.” Jeff assured. “He can dorm with me until the dust settles or whatever if needed.”

Matty sighed fondly. “It wasn’t as if any of us thought of sticking Parson with anyone else.” 

“What about Wolfie?” 

“Oh, shit, _yeah._ He’s an option.”

The thought of taking care of an eighteen-year-old who would probably try to bring girls back to the house and party his ass off was unappealing. Jeff _liked_ his apartment. He wanted it intact. But then Jeff remembered what his mother would say if he complained about having to take care of a teenager: “Karma’s a bitch—you have to do this because of all the shit you put me through.” 

Vaguely, he wondered if this was the universe’s way of repaying him for crashing Mom’s car when he was sixteen. She had never truly approved of his love for sports—the injuries, public life, and toxic culture never appealed to her and, frankly, his father didn’t care for athletics either—so she took jabs at his career choice as frequently as possible. At first, it had stung but then she forgoed going to some fancy professor convention in Switzerland on human rights to attend the NHL awards last year.

It wasn’t the best support but he took what he could. 

Of course, he hadn’t won shit last year which was disappointing since he had been up for the Calder—but it was almost worth it since he got to talk to Bad Bob at the reception. The hockey legend had offered him a whiskey which Jeff declined on the basis that his mother would murder him if she caught him drinking underage. She might have come to his award ceremony and hugged him after he lost to Patrick Kane but she still had her qualms about him living in Sin City. 

Bob had been with his younger child, a bored looking girl with hair so long she could’ve been Rapunzel. Jeff had known the girl in the blue dress was Bob’s daughter because the media still stirred up a shitstorm talking about the Zimmermann children: a son, who was the spitting image of Bob Zimmermann, poised to be God’s gift to hockey and a daughter, adopted from Korea, who was some internet celebrity. Bad Bob and Alicia Zimmermann were Brangelina before Brangelina was a thing. 

But it hadn’t looked like it. 

Chloé Zimmermann had blushed each time her father proved to be _anything_ but cool. Bad Bob was surprisingly dorky and, judging from Chloé's exasperated expression, full of corny dad jokes and outdated pop culture references. If Jeff hadn't been so awestruck, he would’ve pitied the girl. She had been clearly _mortified_.

“Please don’t encourage him,” she had said loudly when Bad Bob made another horrible pun and Jeff laughed along politely. 

But Bob had been a nice man, all things aside, and, though Jeff only spoke to him once, he felt the urge to call him up if only to ask how he was handling the catastrophic avalanche of events. He didn’t have Bad Bob’s number but he _did_ have Chloé Zimmermann’s number. When Bad Bob had been looking the other way, they exchanged contact information because it wasn’t everyday he met someone who understood _exactly_ how it felt to be adopted by an older white couple with fertility issues. 

The fortunate side was that he texted Chloé once in a while—they exchanged internet memes from Facebook—but the downside was that they didn’t communicate frequently enough for him to ask about Parson. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. There it said ‘Chloé Z.’ 

He looked at their last exchange. 

**Jeff [3:45 pm]:** Excited for the draft? 

**Chloé [4:03 pm] :** can’t wait to see jackie and kenny on stage. gonna try to embarrass them haha

The messages made him feel slightly ill and guilty for feeling so removed from Zimmermann overdosing so he didn’t bother to text her. Not yet. He would send his platitudes later.

“Why haven’t we named Wolfie captain yet?” Matty complained.

Jeff snorted. “Because Iron Mike fucking hates him—” 

“He hates all of us,” Matty laughed. “Sure, Keenan hates Wolfie but the only other option is _you_ and he despises _you_ more, Swoops.” 

“Because I had the audacity to call him out for being a fucking racist which he _is_ by the way.” 

“Hey, none of us people with emotional stability are criticizing you. We _are_ saying that the day you get the C or even the A is the day Keenan walks into the locker room wearing a pink tutu and begs to suck my dick.” 

“Yeah, well, tough shit.” Jeff rolled his eyes. “I’ll try to get Blitzer, maybe he hasn’t turned his phone off completely.” He turned to Scrappy and asked. “Where the fuck is he anyway?” 

“The hell if I know? Nova Scotia?” 

“Is that on the East Coast? In Pennsylvania?” 

Matty groaned loudly into the phone. “Nova Scotia isn’t even in the States, you buttfuck, but I’ll let your lack of knowledge regarding geography slide… I know American education isn’t the best...”

Jeff threw his head back against the seat and sighed deeply. “You’re a fucking asshole, Matts,” he groaned emphatically. The edges of his lips curved into a smile and gave away his true feelings. 

Matty made a noise that sounded distinctly like he was kissing the phone, “I miss you too, baby. You're watching the draft right?” 

“Yeah, Parson going first will be the thing to see.”

* * *

In the car they argued about what kind of takeout to get which resulted in Scrappy nearly crashing the car … again. He wanted Indian and Scrappy wanted Chinese. At the end of the day, they settled on Thai because it was the only cuisine either of them could think of that offered both spicy noodles and warm curry. Damn, he _was_ a little uncultured. He needed to start reading again. Then Scrappy bought beer because he was of legal drinking age, something he rubbed in Jeff’s face, and went back to get another pack because the clumsy fucker dropped it.

(The cans had exploded and ended up splattering this lady nearby. So they had spent an hour apologizing profusely, buying the lady a new shirt, and then running back to the store.)

Jeff was surrounded by idiots—lovable idiots but idiots nonetheless.

The twelve-pack of beer they bought was chilling in Scrappy’s freezer because they were impatient like that. Jeff didn’t like beer but he partied enough to tolerate it—at least enough so the guys would stop chirping at him for being a girl whenever he ordered a margarita. Although now, looking at Scrappy’s fridge with the moldy cartoon cheese and greasy bottle of ketchup, Jeff wasn’t sure if he wanted anything in his stomach at all. 

It was a heinous sight. 

“Bro, fucking clean out your fridge,” Jeff yelled, slamming the refrigerator door behind him. “It’s disgusting.” 

Scrappy said from the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room, “I will when you stop whining like a little girl.” 

“Does this place do trash disposal?” Jeff asked suddenly. 

“Er—” Scrappy shrugged. “Of course, why are you asking…?” 

Jeff gestured to his friend, looking him up and down. “Because _you’re_ still here.” 

“Fuck you man. So did Blitzer even pick up?” Scrappy asked, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from one of the cabinets.

“He actually texted back for once,” Jeff snickered from where he had taken over Scrappy’s couch, his feet up on the coffee table and his head leaning against the pillows. The couch was nice, a proper piece of furniture that one could sit on comfortably, unlike the one Jeff’s mother decided to gift him. It was from their suburban Massachusetts house and, like most New England WASP couches, was _extremely_ uncomfortable. But he couldn’t fucking get rid of it because she would be insulted. “Didja know Blitzer’s dad played with Bad Bob with the Penguins? Told Blitzer when the story leaked, so I guess it’s kinda personal for him.”

Scrappy asked suspiciously, cracking open a can of beer. “Don’t you have Bad Bob’s daughter’s digits? Isn’t it kinda personal for _you_ also?”

Jeff whirled around and narrowed his eyes. “Who fucking told you?” 

He didn’t tell anyone he was friends with Chloé Zimmermann on the basis that they would chirp him endlessly about it.

Scrappy snorted. “Bro—Bad Bob might not have seen it but we all saw you get his daughter’s number. You’re not that subtle. I didn’t think you’d have it in you.” 

“Ew, dude. She’s a fucking _kid_.” Jeff threw a sock in Scrappy’s direction. 

“And you didn’t think of that before asking for her number…?” Scrappy’s eyebrows threatened to fly off his forehead. “Bro—you know that shit’s _illegal_ right—” 

“She thought I was cool and we bonded over the adopted by white people situation. So shut your fucking mouth.” Jeff growled. 

Scrappy didn’t relent and continued to needle. “Matty told me you sent her an 18th birthday gift. Dude, you know she’s out of your league right? She’s a Zimmermann and you’re an ass.” 

“I swear to god I will throw you out the window.”

Scrappy held his hands up defensively and said unconvincingly. “ _Alright,_ I just want to let you know it would be incredibly irresponsible _not_ to ask her for Parson’s number so we can welcome him before he gets murdered by Coach—” 

“Just ask the front office, you dickwad.” 

Scrappy burst out just as the broadcast finally started, sitting and disregarding the fact that Jeff’s lap wasn’t a fucking pillow for his stinky feet. “I’d wanna shit my pants if I was Parson. Dealing with the press while my dead best friend’s hooked to tubes? That’s some cold shit.” 

“Half-dead.” Jeff corrected. 

“Eh?” 

“ _Half-_ dead,” Jeff repeated hollowly. “Zimmermann’s not dead, not _yet_.”

When the camera cut to Kent motherfucking Parson after a few minutes, he looked like nothing happened but Jeff would not be fooled—he was too good at recognizing when people were putting on a front. Jeff did it all the time. It took one to know one. 

They all called his name and no one was surprised, least of all Parson himself. An older woman with light brown hair kissed him on the cheek, a girl with brown ringlets and the same shaped eyes hugged him tightly and an older black gentleman clapped him on the shoulder soundly. It was clear they were his family and they didn’t look surprised at all—just elated for him.

It was impressive considering the media shitstorm they were going through. 

Parson plastered a convincing smile for the cameras. The camera panned to his poster-boy American face: cowlick hair that refused to be tamed by gel, slightly pinched eyes and freckles across his nose. To anyone who didn’t know shit about hockey, they would have guessed Parson seemed genuinely happy—lips quirked into a toothy smile—but the stiffness of his cheeks and the glazed over look in his eyes said otherwise. Jeff was grateful when the camera moved around the room instead. 

Jeff wondered if the reality of it all stung for Parson, too, because if he ever wanted to find out if he _could_ even go first—with Jack Zimmermann and the legacy of that name standing right next to him—he certainly couldn’t know _now_.

The question would probably remain in the air for the rest of Parson’s career: Did he truly deserve to go first? Or did he step on the back of his half-dead friend to get ahead? 

Whatever it was—Kent Parson’s legacy would forever be tied to Zimmermann’s overdose and that was not an easy way to start off a career. 

The truth was that Parson wouldn’t have gone first—that was not up for debate. What _was_ up for debate was the notion of Parson being more talented than Zimmermann.

The Aces would have chosen Zimmermann—not because they needed the talent. No, they _needed_ the legacy. They needed _tradition_ , the ties to the highest echelons in the world of hockey. They needed that _old blood_. They were a baby expansion team flooded with young blood, hungry for glory. That’s partly why they chose Arseny Mashkov’s son to play with them but the fucker hadn’t been able to play for them this season. Embroiled in some conflict with the KHL or whatever. But the child of a celebrated hockey player who won several championship titles for Mother Russia wasn’t enough. 

Since the initial NHL expansion, they had been slowly rebuilding and the front office decided the Las Vegas Aces needed a household name with history in hockey. Not an all-American boy. Not a Russian legacy. They needed a good old fashioned _Canadian_ household name. Jack Zimmermann was supposed to be that household name. 

“Until he crashed and burned,” Jeff muttered, sipping his beer. 

“What?” 

He shrugged. “Just thinking about how the front office made such a big deal about drafting a good Canadian boy this year and now they’re getting the exact opposite.”

Scrappy snorted. “At least the guys will like Parson more than Zimmermann—that’s for sure.” 

There was an internal political struggle with some of the guys. They had grumbled that a fucking rookie—a famous rookie—with daddy’s money and daddy’s name was supposed to become the entire face of a franchise they’d spent the last few years rebuilding. Some of these guys came from nothing and it had bruised their egos to know a kid with all the money in the world was supposed to be their ‘star.’ 

At least with Parson, the guys wouldn’t have felt the same bitterness that came with rubbing elbows with the Hockey Establishment. At least there wasn’t the question of whether or not Parson would have been successful. Parson would’ve gone second and he hadn’t needed money or a name to do it. 

In Jeff’s mind, there was nothing wrong with Parson minus potential drug usage. The kid probably had more raw talent than all of them combined. He was incredibly fast—rumors circulated he developed that speed from being unable to afford frequently sharpening his skates— and had a slapshot that left most goalies speechless. The Aces were fortunate to have him but they didn’t _need_ him. Or at least they didn’t see why they needed him right now. 

Right now the front office was frantically playing damage-control and catch-up after shit hit the fan last night. They needed to be ready to welcome Parson as their first draft pick. They needed to be ready to welcome the other draft picks too. They needed to reorient the course of their franchise within hours when they had been meticulously planning for years. Because who the hell had a contingency plan for the top draft pick overdosing on cocaine? 

With a sense of pragmatism, he could imagine what management would say: That Parson was going to be theirs anyway and the entire franchise was better off for it.

Mercilessly Jeff thought at least the rumors of Parson’s drug use—in correlation to his relationship with Zimmermann—was a mighty double-edged sword for the PR office to use. If Parson managed to prove himself worthy of the number one spot, the Aces could play the scrappy underdog story. If he didn’t, then they would use the speculation about his drug usage to redirect the blame from themselves. 

Damn—hockey was _brutal_. 

He watched as Parson put on the Aces jersey and shook hands with the GM, smiling for the camera. They interviewed him after he left the stage and it was all the usual bullshit. 

TV-Parson said. “I feel really happy to be here—it’s been my dream since I was a kid. I’m going to be with the Aces, a great franchise."

“—Bullshit.” Jeff scowled at the TV and turned to Scrappy. “Kid could’ve been at home with the New York Rangers.” 

“—I’m very fortunate to be picked first. My family’s worked really hard for these opportunities for me so I’m glad I get to pay back their hard work.” TV-Parson was skilled enough to look a little bashful. Dammit the kid was _good_. 

The last part was the only statement, dribbling out of Parson’s mouth, that Jeff believed. Otherwise it was all lies—nicely coated lies. 

Jeff took a breath in through his teeth. “That shit’s too perfect, right? It’s kinda scary.” 

On the TV, Kent Parson flashed a perfect, gummy smile for the cameras. It looked like a grimace.

* * *

He stopped pussyfooting and texted Chloé once he crashed on Scrappy’s couch. They both had too many beers and Jeff didn’t feel safe driving. Plus he was incredibly sleepy from all the takeout and booze. 

Chloé was probably at the hospital right now when she should have been celebrating. Vaguely he remembered her telling him she was going to college in New York to get away from her stifling parents. He had been mildly offended when she hadn’t even _considered_ Notre Dame. 

**Jeff [10:30 pm]:** I’m sorry to hear about your brother. Let me know if I can do anything for you. 

To his surprise, his phone pinged immediately. 

**Chloé [10:31 pm]:** u watched the draft? 

**Jeff [10:31 pm]:** Yeah. How you feeling? 

**Chloé [10:32 pm]:** can i call u? 

Jeff’s mind short circuited. They weren’t close enough for her to call him but perhaps she needed someone who was kind of removed from the whole situation. He didn’t know either Parson or Zimmermann and his only understanding of either boys came from Chloé or the random sports tabloid. 

**Jeff [10:33 pm]:** Sure. 

“Hi Jeff.” Chloé sounded snappish and tired as she struggled to stifle her yawn. 

“Hey,” Jeff ran his hand through his mussed hair and blinked in confusion. “How can I help you?”

He winced at those words—he sounded like an employee from customer service, not a wildly underqualified emotional coach. 

“I’m freaking out right now.” 

Without waiting for an invasion, she launched into a tirade about how tired she was of sitting in the hospital and sleeping in chairs. Jeff thought about the crick his neck formed whenever he didn’t have enough pillows and hummed sympathetically. He was, truthfully, only half listening as she complained about the bland hospital food. For a moment, he was tempted to ask what the entire point of her diatribe against the Quebec City hospital was about. 

“—but I can’t leave because what if Jack wakes up and he finds out I wasn’t there because I wanted takeout? I’m so sick of jello and waiting around—” she took a deep breath and sighed loudly. “I hate it here.” 

Jeff made an apologetic look before he realized she couldn’t _see_ him. Sensing this would be a long conversation, he began to make himself a glass of tea in a chipped mug. There was a bag of Lipton on the counter near the sink. “I take it your brother hasn’t woken up yet?” 

At Jeff’s question, Chloé sighed and continued. “No—he’s stable but we’re waiting for him to open his eyes. Jesus Christ, last night we all ate dinner together. Steak and potatoes because my dad wanted to have a special meal. That’s what families do when their son’s clearly going to be the number one draft. We ate with Kenny’s family—his mom brought the wine and dessert.” She sounded a little mournful. “Jack really liked cheesecake. Liv and I—that’s Kenny’s sister by the way—we smoked a joint on the porch…” 

“What the fuck? You’re a _kid_.” 

“You’re two and a half years older than I am, you stupid shit.” She snipped. “Never mind, Kenny’s family stayed over at my place and we all decided to go to the draft together. Of course, next thing you know, I’m being woken up to ride in the ambulance to the hospital and Jack’s—” she took a shaky breath. “I don’t know. He’s fucking seizing and shaking and frothing at the mouth and he’s getting his motherfucking _stomach_ pumped.” 

Jeff was polite enough not to interrupt her as she continued to speak more frantically but Chloé noticed the silence on his end and asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything?” 

He fumbled with his phone for a second, shocked at the abrasive way she asked the question. “Er, I wasn't sure if you were done.” 

“Okay, well, I’m _not_ even if I’m, like, mentally done with this. Is there a time machine I can use so I can launch back to a moment where everything was fine? Except everything _wasn’t_ fine if Jack was hopped up on drugs. _Holy_ shit. I thought he was doing great. He was cracking jokes. My brother’s a robot. He’s actually a robot so he never smiles or makes jokes. But he did!” Although he couldn’t see her, Jeff imagined she was gesticulating wildly. 

“Chloé—” 

“—and it’s really fucking messing with my head. Because he didn’t want to _see_ me. He refused to let me see him in the room so I was just sitting awkwardly in the waiting area. I can’t talk to Kenny about it—he has the draft to deal with. I can’t call his sister. She has to take care of Kenny. My parents are too focused on Jack right now so I can’t talk to _them_. None of my friends know enough about hockey, so—” 

“Chloé.” 

Chloé stopped in the middle of her tirade and there was the sound of static over the phone. “Oh, right. Sorry.” She said, clearing her throat. “ _Anyway_ , that’s why I’m here. Due to the fact that all the people I would like to talk to are currently unavailable or otherwise occupied, I decided to call _you_. Because I don’t know if I want to cry or scream or throw something against the wall. Fucking _Jack_. I don’t understand—I thought everything was going great. I don’t—” 

Jeff asked softly, taking a sip of his tea. “Chloé, have you slept?” 

She let out a hysterical laugh. “No! I haven’t! I fucking haven’t. I was woken up at _two in the morning_ to ride in an ambulance to the hospital. And I’ve kinda been in a state of half-sleeping whenever I get the chance to shut my eyes.”

“Do you want me to read the most boring book I have to you?” He offered kindly, not sure how he should approach the delicate situation. “So you can get some rest?” 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No—I’m trying to help you and the best I can offer in terms of emotional comfort right now is saying that I’m glad your brother’s alive and will get the help he needs but that’s not the best thing to say so….” 

“Okay. Read to me.” She agreed smally. 

Jeff grabbed one of the history books Scrappy had lying around, even though he knew the fucker didn’t _read_ and opened to a random page. He pinched the bridge of his nose and began. 

* * *

Even though it was only his third year with the Aces and in the NHL, Jeff received a message that he was going to be housing one of the new rookies. Coach Keenan likely did it because he was a petty son of a bitch and because none of the other guys wanted to deal with a teenager. The message also came with the notification that he was being moved to the first-line which was the first smart move their Coach made in fucking forever. He wasn’t so humble to believe he wasn’t talented and being on the second line hadn’t annoyed him at all (lies) but _damn_ —he could’ve done more for the team on the first. He knew it, the team knew it, and Coach Keenan knew it too. That’s why he stuck Jeff to second the past two years. 

It was a week after the draft when Jeff learned he would be responsible for Kent Parson.

Still, he could recall how scary it was to jump into pro hockey at the tender age of eighteen—after a year at Notre Dame—and how it felt to go across the stage at the draft. That anxiety seemed paltry to what Parson might have been feeling. Everyone knew Parson was their second choice and the tabloids—and Don fucking Cherry—were already speculating on whether or not the Aces’ new hotshot would have the freedom to party his ass off. 

Wolfie clapped him hard on the shoulder. “He _was_ going to stay with me but—” 

“—he knocked his girlfriend up and now they need to get married—” Scrappy cut in, smirking like he just won the lottery which, considering the endless chirping material about their defacto captain they just received, wasn’t far off. 

“What have I told you about eavesdropping, you piece of shit?” Wolfie stalked forward. 

Scrappy retorted, a bright smile still on his face. “What have we told you about doing it raw? Your pull-out game _sucks!_ ”

“Run your mouth again and I’ll have the guys beat you up.” Wolfie narrowed his eyes. 

“I thought my mouth was the best part of me.” Scrappy said innocently. 

Wolfie promptly flipped off their goalie and snorted. “Yeah—for sucking my dick.” He turned to Jeff and the annoyed expression on his face melted away to a more placid one. “Parson went from the draft to development camp and he’s almost nineteen. Scrappy told me you texted Zimmermann's sister. Seems like the best choice to put him with you.” 

Jeff said blandly. “You want me to babysit him. I’m the NHL’s glorified babysitter.” 

Wolfie shrugged without shame. “By the way, when my son’s born—” 

“Oh, shit? It’s a boy? Congrats man!” 

“Not sure yet but I have a good feeling. When my son’s born, you’ll have had plenty of experience with Parson. No need to hire a nanny or anything.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Hey—” Wolfie pointed at Jeff accusingly. “They told me you offered—”

“I didn’t fucking _mean_ it.” 

“Yes, you did. You just hate it because you don’t like being the designated mother hen.” Wolfie slung his arm around Jeff’s shoulders, which was a feat in itself. Jeff was the tallest member of the team with a measly inch over Mashkov who, with his gangly arms and broad shoulders, looked positively _ginormous_. “It’s good for Parson to have a good example so he doesn’t... _y’know_.” 

Jeff sighed. “I’m boring because I don’t have threesomes with the puck bunnies who throw themselves at me or get shitfaced every weekend and I actually know how to cook. So you want me to do damage control so that he doesn’t party himself into rehab like Zimmermann.”

Wolfie gave him a surprised look before nodding, almost impressed. “Basically, yeah.” He didn’t seem to regret _anything_ about the arrangement. Not the fact that he was going to have a child out of wedlock, not the fact that his girlfriend was still in _school_ getting her Masters, not the fact that if he had put on a condom, Jeff might not have been in the situation—

“—you’re the right man for this. You’re a good player and he’ll respect that. Besides, if I didn’t think you got this shit on lock I wouldn’t have volunteered you.” 

Jeff went along with it but only because the other teammates weren’t any better. Age wise, Wolfie was the outlier. The other guys were in their teens or early twenties—still partying it up like week was Spring Break in Florida. Scrappy was out of the fucking question. Benny couldn’t even drive, let alone be trusted to take care of another human being. Blitzer's braincell count was in the single digits and maybe that was generous. Smirnov already had his hands full. Alexei Mashkov finally figured out his shit with the KHL—some stupid passport thing but Jeff didn’t want to think about it it because Russia reminded him of _1984_ —and they weren’t sure how much English he spoke. That meant their other rookie was going to live with Smirnov. 

So naturally Jeff was the only and right option. 

“When’s he coming?” Jeff asked. 

“Er—” Wolfie rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “About that…” 

" _No_ —you didn’t!” 

“—there was a problem with his flight—” 

“—You asshats!” 

“—so his plane is going to land today and you have four hours to get your apartment ready.” Wolfie finished in a hurried breath. 

“I hate you all.”

Wolfie sighed dramatically and put his hand on his chest. “You’re officially out of the running to be my son’s godfather.” 

“Thank fucking god.” 

“Now that’s just _rude_.” 

* * *

Because Jeff was in a frenzied panic and none of the other guys were useful, idiotic fucks, he Skyped his mother. “What do I buy for a teenage boy? What do they even need?” 

“Condoms.” His mother said flatly. 

“Ew, god! Mom!” Jeff hissed blushing furiously. “I’m _serious_.” 

“So am I! Don’t think I didn’t know you were having underage sex with that girl in our basement. Did you think those condoms were there by accident, Jefferson Thompson Troy?” 

Maybe one day his mother would grow out of making sarcastic digs at him every chance she got but today was not the day. 

Jeff spluttered, “You _knew_?” 

“ _Of course!_ Now—this is just perfect. Revenge for crashing my car and for smoking in my basement—” 

“Oh, _Ma_ —” 

She crowed loudly into the computer. “You’re going to have to deal with a—” she paused, “—ESPN says he’s eighteen and _wow_! He looks _nothing_ like either of his parents—” she squinted and smiled devilishly. “Wikipedia says he's got a stepfather—he’s _handsome—_ ” 

“Ew, Mom! You’re _married_.” 

She smiled archly, “Doesn’t mean that I’m not blind. You don’t suppose you can ask that boy about his father, could you?” 

_“Ugh_.” He shuddered. 

“What’s the problem, anyway? You always wanted a younger brother. Now’s your chance, baby.” 

Jeff scrunched his nose. “I wanted a younger brother because I thought I wouldn’t have any responsibilities and the other boys in the neighborhood had someone to blame whenever they broke a vase.” 

“It’s a good opportunity for you both,” she said softly. “I don’t know much about hockey but he’s thousands of miles away from his family and his best friend just overdosed. He’s likely upset and you’re not going to make his life hard, Jefferson.” 

He balked at that accusation. “When have I made anyone’s life hard—give me one time, Mom!” He pointed at the screen. “And dropping out of college doesn’t count!” 

“I’m just saying sweetheart. Be his friend.” she tutted. “He might turn out to be a nice boy—they all told me not to adopt _you_ and while you are a perennial pain in my ass, you have turned out relatively fine.” 

Jeff crossed his arms over his chest and said smugly. “Just admit that you love that I paid off the mortgage to the house.” 

It was the first thing he did when he got his paycheck from the NHL. There were so many zeros, Jeff’s eyes boggled. His parents made good money as professors at Boston University but they used most of their spare money for charity work. It was part of their upbringing as activists during the 70s, he supposed. While he scrunched his nose at the thought of his parents smoking weed and protesting naked—or doing other weird hippie things—he wouldn’t deny he was appreciative of the fact that they adopted him out of the foster system. 

He had been too young to remember it but he saw the pictures of his father holding an upset baby on his ‘Gotcha Day’. His childhood had been filled with his mother insisting Jeff was her real son despite the fact that they didn’t look alike. She grew apoplectic whenever anyone suggested otherwise and it was the trait he loved most about her. In fact, he loved it so much he paid off the house as soon as he could—his parents deserved it. 

To his surprise, her voice grew soft and nostalgic. “I do. You know we raised you right, Jefferson. I wouldn’t have ever let you go into the NHL if you hadn’t lived with that boy—the one with the girlfriend who was too smart for him—”

“That’s Wolfie, Mom.” 

She scoffed. “You all have been hit in the head too many times! That’s a _stupid_ name.”

“Sorry Mom. That’s Wilson.”

“... Never mind. What kind of a name is _Wilson_?” 

He felt the urge to ask her what kind of a name was Jefferson but then she would launch into a tirade about how he was named after his grandfather’s best friend. 

“Anyway, that Wolfie boy kept you in check. Be to this Kenneth boy what Wolfie was to you.”

Jeff sighed. “I hate my life, Mom.” 

“You’ve always been a drama queen.”

* * *

In the next hour he was in the passenger seat of Scrappy’s car, fiddling with the buttons on the stereo and watching Scrappy slide into the driver’s side. Jeff felt like shit—partly because he was slightly hungover and partly because he was going to be housing a teenager. He got Scrappy to drive him to Rite Aid to buy aspirin and then the airport to pick up Parson. Maybe they could get a tub of Thrifty’s ice cream to eat. 

“Dude,” Scrappy said, his face focused on the road ahead as they broke the speed limit on the streets. “You know you have a massive hickey on your neck right?” 

Jeff groaned and slapped the side of his neck. When there was a flair of pain, he _knew_ Scrappy wasn’t fucking with him. “That girl _bit_ me last night. She fucking _bit_ me—like I was a piece of meat.” 

“To be fair,” Scrappy laughed. “You kind of _are_. You’re huge bro—” he quickly corrected himself. “And I’m not talking about your dick.”

“You stare at my dick?” 

“Of course,” Scrappy nodded seriously. “I have to stare because it takes me a long time to locate it. You have a micropenis.” 

“Ugghh.”

“How did you get stuck with a kinky girl who likes to bite?” 

Jeff explained, “I thought her friend was cute and mistook her for another girl. These Vegas chicks all look the same after a while. They even wore black dresses—so I ended up taking her home when I wanted to sleep with her friend.”

“You are a horrible, terrible person and your feminist, hippie mother would be _incredibly_ ashamed.” Scrappy pointed out.

Jeff snorted. “You weren’t regretting our friendship earlier when I stopped that chick from throwing her drink into your face. I don’t know what it is with you and women but you have a way of pissing all of them off—it’s a gift, bro. Hell, I should’ve let her smack you too.” 

“Says the guy who couldn’t tell which girl he wanted to fuck. You know, you’re hardly in a position to judge.” On anyone else, those words would have sounded condescending but on bright Xavier Coleman, it had the opposite effect. Jeff felt instantly lighter and less hungover when he snorted in amusement. 

“Touché.” Scrappy risked another glance toward Jeff before turning his attention back on the road. “So how are you dealing with the fact that you’re on your way to meet the new rookie? I gotta say man, Wolfie was pretty big on having the kid room with you. Like his existential anxiety went down significantly when you said you’d take Parson.”

“It’s not because he thought I wouldn’t take him. It’s because he told me _today_ that I had four fucking hours to get ready.” Jeff shrugged and leaned back into the seat. “He’s a good captain but sometimes I want to clock him.” 

Scrappy snorted loudly. “You’d think our captain would be above a shotgun wedding because he knocked up his girl.”

“Ugh, right.” 

At Jeff’s disgruntled expression, Scrappy laughed. “Never thought Wolfie would join Chessy, Jughead and Smirnov in the parent department. I didn’t think Wolfie had it in him. Lucky bastard.” Scrappy made a low whistle. 

“Can we _not_ talk about Wolfie’s sex life?” Jeff groaned, “Just the thought of him becoming a father seems terrifying enough—you know the fucker’s going to make us babysit his kid?” 

“Seriously?” Scrappy blurted out incredulously. 

“Seriously.” 

“What the hell—that’s a terrible idea. You think I can get out of it?” 

“... you weren’t even considered for babysitting duty.” 

“Thank God.” 

Jeff felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out of his back pocket. It was from Chloé. 

**Chloé [7:55 pm]:** i need u to do me a favor

 **Jeff [7:55 pm]:** What is it? 

**Chloé [7:55 pm]:** gonna give u kenny’s number. look after him but don’t tell him i sent u. he’ll be a little bitch about it

 **Jeff [7:56 pm]:** Your timing is impeccable. I’m on my way to pick him up from the airport. He’s going to be dorming with me. 

**Chloé [7:56 pm]:** he didn’t mention this. did u contact him already? 

**Jeff [7:56 pm]:** No. My captain just told me three hours ago that he was staying with me. 

**Chloé [7:57 pm]:** LMAO ur captain procrastinated telling u? 

**Chloé [7:57 pm]:** he deserves a good ass whooping

 **Jeff [7:58 pm]:** Don’t remind me. I’m surrounded by idiots.

 **Chloé [7:58 pm]:** 716-887-8135. 

**Jeff [7:58 pm]:** Parson’s #? 

**Chloé [7:59 pm]:** yeah. take care of kenny. don’t want to lose another brother.

He typed ‘Should’ve been your brother first’ before deleting it immediately. It was unfair to Parson, who worked his ass off to be first, Zimmermann, who was currently in the hospital, and Chloé, who was probably worrying herself senseless. 

**Jeff [8:01 pm]:** Anytime. 

**Chloé [8:01 pm]:** thanks jeff <33 really appreciate it 

**Jeff [8:01 pm]:** Let me know if you need anything else.

They got their aspirin and tub of ice cream from Rite Aid. Soon enough Jeff stepped out of the car and was shaking hands with Kent Parson for the first time—at the McCarran terminal. Training camp began in a few weeks and he assessed Parson discreetly. The future of their franchise looked like any other teenage boy. Suddenly, Jeff recalled how he felt his first year, after unceremoniously dropping out of college. He fronted like a pro to hide how fucking terrified he felt. 

The fear was all too familiar—coursing through his veins and making his stomach queasy while he willed his heart to not jump out of his fucking chest. Right now he didn’t envy Parson, who looked sleep deprived and running on pure adrenaline. 

Jeff decided to play it safe and said, “Nice to meet you man. Jefferson Troy but everyone calls me Jeff or Swoops.” 

Parson shook his hand, grip firm despite how sweaty the rookie’s palm was. “What’s the story behind _that_ name?” 

"Before my first game, I was so nervous I told the guys I should've stuck to playing basketball. A couple days later, we're playing ball and I dunked on some of them." Jeff shrugged.

Parson’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit—you can dunk?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fuck, that’s cool.” Kent grinned like a little monkey. “We’re going to kick ass this year, aren’t we?” 

If there was one thing Jeff was sure of it was that they were definitely going to try. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a story about transracial adoption but I have some friends who went through that experience so here we are. I also like exploring multicultural and "modern" families.  
> So I made Jeff "Swoops" Troy a Hispanic man who was adopted at a young age by former hippies who couldn't have kids of their own. The same goes for Chloé Zimmermann who is Korean. I went with the storyline that Bob and Alicia couldn't have more kids so they adopted her too.  
> I also gave Kent a black stepfather because I could. I wanted him to have a good father-figure to lean on during the fallout of Jack's overdose and the stress of his first year in the NHL. Sue me. I want Kent to have a nice family.


End file.
